Chapter 1
The window illustrated a canvas of lush woodlands, with nothing but ceramic paths to separate them. Since childhood, you had always fancied being near the window, close enough to hear your favorite birds sing. As you grew older, you learned how to sing the way the birds sang. Your mother, Lady Wrenford, saw an advantage to this gift and ordered you to have lessons immediately. Both parents believed that you, the eldest, would be the most promising of the daughters.
But time passed.
Marianne had impulsively married the first man to propose at the ripe age of nineteen. Then came perfect little Cecilia, who secured a powerful match with Duke Nemings.
From head to toe, you were adorned in soft pastel colors, you were a pearl among pebbles. Countless suitors had sought your hand, eager to claim a woman of such taste and talent. However, the only thing you truly belonged to was your flute. Other men stirred no interest in you, though it was not for lack of beauty. You longed for the kind of soul you found only in your books. You yearned for a man of gentleness who would place you above all else—a man who would move the sun, moon, and clouds for you. One who would cherish your talents and value your words, unlike those who only feigned interest.
Now you were no longer a child, but a twenty-nine year-old yet still unwed.
Instead of sitting by the window, like you usually do every afternoon, you chose to rest by the fountain that had always been visible from it. You smiled at the sound of the water trickling down. A calming sound settled in as you read your book, “To Be Loved”. Marques truly had a way with writing poetic letters on love and longing. In fact, after completing a few pages, you felt inspired and set the book next to you and picked up your flute.
You played a melancholic yet romantic tune: The Last Rose of Summer.
But the notes did not fall on deaf ears.
As the song neared its end, you noticed an elderly woman appear from the corner of your eye.
“My, my what a soothing sound.”
The young woman nodded, squinting until the cloaked figure came into clearer view.
“I could not help but be enchanted by the sound of your flute. You play so wonderfully.”
“That is so kind of you to say. And you are?”
The elder stood beside you now, her expression pensive as you conjured a reply. “My name is not relevant. I am a mere peasant.” Her gaze dropped to your unscathed hands—hands that had only ever known delicacy. “The silhouette of your song was beckoning me,” she said, lifting her eyes to you. “The song spoke to me. Your heart is yearning.”
You let out a quiet laugh at the strange remark. “Everyone’s heart yearns.”
The elder nodded. “True. But only you have played me such a delightful song.” Her wrinkled hands passed over the flute. “If you play once more, something unrehearsed coming from the heart, your deepest desire will come true.”
You nodded, finding no harm in indulging the strange request. You shut your eyes and began to play.
The flute felt heavier in your hands, and as you transformed air into a freely waltzing melody, the air thickened. This moment lasted until you opened your eyes again; then the woman was gone—and the flute had lost its added weight.
“You always had such a fanciful mind, dear,” said the mother with a faint smile, while the sisters laughed softly beside you as you recounted the tale of the old woman.
The mountainous pebbles beneath the carriage wheels sent a light tremble through the carriage that might have muffled their voices, but not your embarrassment from the day prior.
You opened your mouth to defend yourself, your mother silenced you with a single glare.
The matriarch spoke firmly, “We are arriving soon at the Duchess of Carringsway’s garden party. I do hope you refrain from sharing your stories with anyone else. This conversation must end now.”
You could only lower your gaze and mutter, “Yes, Mother.”
When the Wrenford family exited the carriage, the sound of gentle chatter and a light orchestra could be heard from afar. Your heart leapt, and your grip on your flute tightened.
Inside, the family soon diverged into their respective pairings, leaving you to take your place among the musicians. You closed your eyes, lips met the embouchure of the flute, awaiting the next song.
As the music flowed, your gaze wandered toward the audience, and that was when you noticed him.
A man you did not know, a man everyone knew.
You had never missed a ball. Not one. And yet, it was as if you were the only one who had never met him before. He laughed, shook hands, and exchanged knowing glances with gentlemen you had never seen in acquaintance with him. Everyone acted as though he had always belonged here.
After your performance, you slipped away from the hall and into somewhere quieter, the famous garden. The scent of petals hung thick in the twilight.
Not enough time passed before a voice appeared behind you: “Still favoring the eastern wing of the Carringsway gardens, I see.” He said it as if it were a private joke, something shared between old friends or lovers.
You turned slowly, your eyes locking with his hazel brown ones. “I apologize,” you said, your voice steady but uncertain. “Have we met before?”
The man gave you a charming smile. “Ah, playing coy, are we?” Something unreadable was hidden behind those eyes. “I suppose I deserve that, after taking so long to return your book.” From behind his back, he revealed your book, “To Be Loved.”
You snatched it from his hands and held it to your chest; there was a sense of alarm in your tone.
“How did you get this?”
He smiled, soft and indulgent. “You gave it to me during the last ball at Windsor. No need to be embarrassed; it’s a wonderful book.”
Before you could respond, a voice broke through the tension.
“Duke Ravensfield,” said Cecilia with a curtsy. She turned to you, taking your hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s growing late. Daddy and Mumsy expect us at the carriage by now.”
The man kneeled to take your hand in his. “It was a pleasure to see you again, my lady—however brief our time.”
He softly kissed your knuckles. You could only nod before being led away by Cecilia.
Through the whole carriage ride, Cecilia could do nothing but giggle and recount the Duke’s romantic advances to the rest of the family. Your tone barely hid your confused state. “You all seem rather approving of him.”
“Of course we are,” the father said. “Elias is a very good man.” As the family continued to chatter over their own affairs, you looked down at your hands, where there was a ring on your index finger that had never been there before.
By the continuing morning, the sun abruptly shone through as the blinds were moved. “Good morning,” called out a maid. “We must get ready for today quickly.” Another maid pulled you up, and quickly others came to prepare you for the day.
“What will happen today?” you asked as you prepared. A maid abruptly stopped for a second, as if dumbfounded by your disorientation, before continuing, “You are to move to the Ravensfield manor.”
You looked around the room and noted how your room seemed almost vacant—dresses and shoes taken by the servants. Downstairs, the family was practically gleeful; finally, the bird would leave the nest and make a life for itself.
And there he was—Elias. His eyes were full of adoration once he saw you again, “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” You curtsied back at him.
A handkerchief in Lady Wrentford’s hands that you continuously used to scare away her tears. “My darling girl, we are so proud,” she said, kissing your cheek.
Cecilia adjusted your bonnet with a smile. “Imagine—Duke Ravensfield of all men. Everyone in England envies you.”
Marianne playfully rolled her eyes. “And you didn’t even have to chase him.”
Their laughter rang in your ears as you stepped into the carriage, this time alone with him. You tried to conceal your own tears, wondering when you would see your family again. This was all too soon; how could you be married? Wouldn’t you remember your own marriage? You don’t even recall your first meeting with him or his proposal for marriage. How is there a ring on her finger?
He spoke of things you never remembered agreeing to, such as colors you liked, tea you preferred, and a favorite flower you didn’t consider was your favorite until he said it aloud.
“White hyacinths, of course,” he smiled. “I adorned a section of our garden with it; you will adore it.”
Did you?
Outside, the green blurred into stone roads until finally, towering iron gates came into view.
The manor loomed ahead. Ravensfield.
It was luxurious, a dream in fruition for any young girl to call such architecture home. Servants opened the door once the carriage fully came to a halt. Elias waited at the top of the steps.
“You’re home,” he said, as if he had been anticipating this moment his whole life.
After arriving, Elias was constantly within reach, holding your hand as he took you through each room. The rooms were arranged with meticulous care, each corner seemingly perfected to fit all of your expectations.
As he described everything and its purpose in their home, your hands caressed the delicate fabrics draped over the furniture.
You could tell that his eyes were constantly observing your every move, as if you were a porcelain doll at the edge of a countertop.
As days passed on, everything seemed so perfect—just how you imagined reliving your favorite fantasies would be. There would be morning teas in the conservatory, whispered conversations in the library, and walks through the garden where your favorite flowers bloomed.
But you felt as if you were being constantly monitored by his gentle gaze. While he was out working, you would be left alone with no one to entertain you, but even they had no time for you. The freedom you once knew was slipping away, replaced by a glass cage.
You tried to confront him about your desires, but his gentle interruptions drowned out your voice, his hands always reaching out to calm you, to hush your doubts before they could form. Every time you begged to leave, it was denied, as he claimed the world was too dangerous for you; you would be safer here.
It had been so long since you last saw your family that you felt as if you were being enraptured by madness.
Your hands trembled as you gripped a dagger you found earlier, hidden in a drawer. With every breath, your desperation had heightened. The man you had longed for had become suffocating, and you were eager for an escape. While he was comfortably asleep, you raised the blade and plunged it into his heart.
Your heart was practically vibrating in an attempt to escape its own ribcage. You left the room and moved with stealth as you sought an escape without being caught by any of the other servants. Your naked feet graced the grass once you were outside of the manor—it felt like freedom. Though you were not free yet.
“Dear,” Elias whispered tenderly, “you were afraid. I understand.” You backed away, trembling, “No, no, no. I killed you; you are dead!” His gaze was like one given to a frightened child. His arms opened and embraced you. That is when he whispered, “You wanted a love that will never end, dearest. So it never will.”
